


The Fabric of our Love

by honeyyoongi



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bottom Harry, Drugs, Endgame Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Fashion & Couture, Fashion Designer Harry, Fluff, Hurt Harry Styles, Liam Payne & Louis Tomlinson Friendship, Louis Tomlinson Loves Harry Styles, M/M, Model Louis, Model Zayn, Niall Horan & Harry Styles Friendship, Top Louis, model liam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-12 23:15:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5685106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyyoongi/pseuds/honeyyoongi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Styles in the biggest fashion designer in the world. Louis Tomlinson is the hottest model in Britain. When the two meet, they're destined for a tragedy that will break them, or a love that will prevail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fabric of our Love

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic on AO3! There will be brief mention of the beards at times and slight drug use, just a warning. I hope you guys like it. You can follow me on tumblr at larryslittlespoon.

**Prologue**

Had Zayn not decided to leave, then another model wouldn’t have been called in for the photoshoot. Had another model not been called in for the photoshoot, then Harry wouldn’t have had to be there. Had he not been there, then he wouldn’t have met the best model in all of Britain, and he wouldn’t have been mesmerised by those blue eyes, and he wouldn’t have made plans for dinner afterwards, and he definitely wouldn’t have fallen in love this serial heartbreaker, of which whose name he’s not forgotten.

Except, Harry hasn’t forgotten, and he definitely still remembers. 

Because even though months and days and minutes and heartbeats and breaths have passed, you can’t forget the first person who you truly loved, and who loved you in return. The only thing you can really forget is to show them just how much it all matters.

**Chapter One - Lips so Good I Forget my Name**

In the wintertime, London is foggy and grey and beautiful. Sometimes - and these are the days that Harry loves the most - it gets so cold that frost pools on the streetlamps and the shop windows, making it feel like everything is in a movie.

It is 6:00 in the morning, and the streets aren’t as busy as they should be. Harry takes this time to venture out to the never ending shops that line the streets, relishing this little moment of alone time that he has to himself. It’s much better than being crammed into his assistant’s car, then driven off to the large, pearly white building that he calls his studio.

In all fairness, Harry had objected to being chauffered around the city, but still Niall insisted they take all the necessary safety precautions.

“Can’t have the biggest fashion designer in the world dead on the streets, now can I?” Niall always quipped.

Right now Harry’s bundled up, tucking a loose strand of his long curls back into his beanie. This is his way of going undercover. He doesn’t need to, but he does. It eases his mind to know that he’s no longer _Harry Styles_ when he hides. He’s just Harry.

His first stop is a little cafe sandwiched between a used bookstore and a florist. When he steps in, the smell of eggs and toast and coffee engulfs him. He tries to remember the last time he’s stepped into a small place like this, all homey and yellow and warm. He realizes it’s been too long.

After three years, his paranoia has gotten the better of him, and he’s quick in the cafe. All he grabs is a pressed panini and a coffee to go, being sure to throw a chocolate pasty in there for Niall. Then he’s off back down the sidewalk, munching on his sandwich, held tilted towards the concrete, admiring the colourful shops.

He does not regret the choices he’s made that have taken him to where is today. If anything, he’s grateful that people admire his work. But on days like this, when he’s alone and has a minute to catch his thoughts, to taste the snow on his tongue, to feel the frost kiss his cheeks, he’s envious of the people who can just _be_.

It’s 6:30 and Harry gets a buzz in his pocket. He debates not answering it, but then Niall would be thrown into a panic, and he’d never hear the end of it. So, he pops the last bit of his sandwich into his mouth and reaches for his phone.

It’s Niall, of course.

_Gooood mornin sunshine! This is ur wakeup call! I’ll be at your flat at 7:15 sharp! :)_

Harry grins, and types back a quick message. If Niall were gay and Harry hadn’t known him for years, he might consider crushing on him. Harry never says it as often as he should, but he’s extremely grateful for Niall and he loves him very much.

So Harry marches back to his flat, sipping his coffee and waving at dogs out for their morning stroll. He looks at trees and flowers dusted with snow, and by the time he gets back to his flat at 7:10, he has a handful of frozen grey flowers. He takes the steps two at a time up to his building - 2802. He takes his time putting the key in the lock and turns it slowly, humming a sad song he can’t remember the name of.

He wishes time would stand still, just for a moment.

When inside, he neatly hangs his coat in the closet and carefully places his boots aside. Running his fingers through his hair, he slips into something more proper, ditching his ripped jeans for slacks and his ratty tee for a silk button up. Then he hears a loud knock at the door, and he can’t help but sigh.

“S’open!” he calls.

Niall topples into the room, his presence loud and bright and big. “Hiya! You almost ready?” Harry nods. “Hey, got anything to eat? ’m starving,” Niall says, and drifts into the kitchen.

“There’s a chocolate pasty on the kitchen table,” Harry says, winking at Niall. “Bought it just for you.”

Niall laughs his bellowing laugh, and Harry gives his hair one last ruffle before slipping his coat back on.

Niall’s got half a pasty in his mouth and he checks his watch. “We need to be there soon,” he mumbles with food still in his mouth. “They’re doing the shoot for the fall ready-to-wear collection. Need ya there.”

Harry nods, mostly to himself, adding it to his mental checklist of all the things he needs to do. He follows Niall to his little black car, waving and smiling at the small crowd of people that’s pooled around his flat, phones out and flashes going off. He hops in the passenger side of Niall’s car, and soon they’re off.

They’re halfway to the studio when, “Zayn’s not modelling this time,” Niall says.

Harry stares blankly at the road. He’s not surprised, not really. Zayn had grown tired of his collections, and it was only a matter of time before he moved on to something more suited to his tastes.

“Who is it then?” he asks. He checks his phone for messages and ignores them all.

“That new guy,” Niall says. “Y’know, the one everybody is talking ‘bout? Uh, Louis something.”

“Tomlinson,” Harry mutters. “I’ve heard about him.”

Everybody’s heard about him. Louis Tomlinson, the biggest model in England. Harry has never seen the guy, but talk about him is everywhere. Some people call him the next David Beckham, with him being both a footballer and a model at the same time. Harry has his doubts, though.

It’s 8:00 when they pull up to the back of the studio and quickly head inside. They’re late, but they take their time walking up to the photoshoot. When they step in, people are bustling around, getting backdrops organized, steaming the clothes, preparing makeup and lights and cameras. It’s all very busy, and Harry relishes in it. He glides across the room, saying hello to everybody and looking over things.

As Harry looks over his sketches for the collection, Niall pokes his shoulder, directing his gaze over to the backdrop area.

“That’s him,” Niall whispers.

They’ve caught him mid laugh. His voice is shrill and sweet, like a child who’s been given fresh sweets, or a boy who’s fallen in love for the first time. He laughs a gaudy laugh, and as he does so, his lips touch his eyes.

And oh, his eyes.

They’re soft and warm and beautiful. They remind Harry of a pair of earrings his mum used to own. They’d been his favourite, and when his mum went out, he’d hold them next to his ears, marvelling at how they caught the light so perfectly.

Harry wonders why they kept Louis a secret from him.

With Niall straying close behind, Harry sashays up to Louis, extending his hand. Louis glances at it, an eyebrow cocked, but takes it graciously. His hands melt in Harry’s large grasp.

“Louis Tomlinson,” Harry says, accentuating every syllable carefully. “I’m Harry Styles.”

“I know. Your face is all over Piccadilly Circus.”

Harry chuckles, nodding slowly. He releases his grip on the boy’s hand, letting his fingers trail lightly across his palm. He notices Louis’ cheeks flush a soft pink.

“Have you taken a look at the style guide?” Harry asks. He grabs a large pink binder off a nearby table and leafs through the guides on how to pose for each outfit.

“Actually, Mr. Tomlinson prefers to do his own poses,” says a woman. Harry glances at her, raising an eyebrow, and she adds, “My name is Eleanor Calder. I’m Mr.Tomlinson’s manager and consultant.” She flashes a perky smile.

“Mr. Styles is very particular about the way his clothes are modelled,” Niall explains. “I think - “

“Let’s see what he can do,” Harry interjects, setting the binder down. “Let’s see why he’s England’s hottest model.”

Niall stares at Harry, confused, before mumbling a “yes, sir,” and ushering everybody to prepare themselves. Harry stands off to the side, watching as Louis positions himself for the camera.

The set is simple: a grey backdrop with a black cube as the sole prop. Louis has keen eyes, though, and he positions himself over the box in a way that makes the wool sweater he’s wearing cascade over his shoulders like a satin scarf. He glances at Harry quickly for approval, and Harry gives him a little nod. The camera flashes once, twice, three times, then Louis strikes another pose. This time, he kicks away the box and stands with his hands in the pockets of his trousers. He looks off in the distance, and a serene look falls across his face. The cameras flash, and his eye catch the light beautifully, and all of a sudden Harry is taken back to the earrings. His stomach knots, as if little butterflies are preparing to be set free.

“Next outfit!” someone calls, and Louis is easing back to his normal self. The style director prepares the next pieces, and Louis carefully strips his sweater and pants. Harry’s stomach lurches as his eyes rake across the model’s body. He quickly peels them away as Louis shoots him a glance.

“Which outfit is next?” Harry asks, mostly to seem nonchalant about the situation.

The art director flips through her book. “Number 28,” she says. “The white silk shirt with the swallows, paired with the grey chinos.”

Harry nods. He glances back to where the makeup artists are touching up his face and his hair, and the style director tucks the shirt into the pants. They fit across Louis’ bum loosely, and they’re too long at the bottom so he’s rolled them up. The stylist puts a long grey coat over Louis’ shoulders, and something is off.

“Stop,” Harry interjects as the lead stylist on set begins to tie Louis’ shoes.

Everyone freezes and watches Harry glide across the room. He gives the stylist a gentle smile, then motions her to kindly move out of the way. She steps to the side, her face blushing crimson. Harry steps in front of Louis, his eyes raking over the model’s body.

Louis smirks. “You should take a picture, Mr. Styles,” he jokes. “It’ll last longer.”

“Maybe I will,” Harry says absent-mindedly. He’s met enough models to know that he should brush off any unwanted comments.

“Isn’t it funny how your name is Styles and you’re a stylist?” Louis asks. “Did you do that on purpose?”

“I’m not a stylist, actually,” Harry replies. “I’m a designer. And the only reason why I’m even here is because I must oversee your abilities as a model.”

Louis laughs. “Ouch. Mr. Styles, you certainly have me gutted.”

Harry ignores him and takes the coat off of Louis. He squints for a moment, then says, “Take your pants off.”

This time, it’s Louis’ face that reddens. He blinks a few times then mumbles, “Shouldn’t you buy me dinner first?”

“Keep this up, and I most certainly will not,” Harry tells him. “Drop the cheeky attitude and maybe I’ll consider.”

A handful of people chuckle. Harry smiles and gives Louis a wink. Then, he walks over to the rack of clothes and tosses a pair of black slacks tapered at the ankle at Louis, hitting him in the face. He walks back over to where Louis stands, watching him slip the pants snugly over his bum. Harry then rests his hand lightly on Louis’ arm and asks, “May I?” Louis nods, and Harry rolls up the sleeves of the shirt up to Louis’ forearms, revealing an array of tattoos.

“Sorry about that earlier,” Harry murmurs softly.

“S’okay,” Louis assures him with a smirk. “S’nice to have somebody sass me back for a change. Spices things up a little.”

Harry laughs, then takes his place beside Niall. Louis positions himself back against the backdrop, stands with his legs slightly parted, his head down. Then, right before the camera clicks, he looks up, staring right at Harry. His eyes are smouldering and Harry can feel his heart slam against his chest.

Harry hasn’t felt this way in a long time. He can feel himself melting, his heart warming until it pools at his feet. He feels like he could fly, riding the curtails of the wind wherever he pleases. He’s terrified, but he’s also aches for more.

When the flashing finally stops, Harry simply nods and gives Louis a small smile.

“Beautiful,” he whispers.

*** * ***

It’s nearly noon when Niall comes knocking on Harry’s office door.

He’s sketching pieces for the women’s summer collection; he decides that this year will be blue, full of airy fabrics and regal prints. Niall saunters in carrying a bottle of water and a cup of ice.

“Thanks,” Harry murmurs, pouring the water into the cup and taking a swig of it. Chopin plays softly in the background, and he taps his fingers along with the rhythm of the music. “Oh, Niall? Be sure to call Miss Jenner for me. We need to arrange her fitting.”

“Of course. And, oh, yes,” Niall remembers, “Mr. Tomlinson wanted to speak to you. To formally introduce himself or summat. I said that would be fine, if it’s alright with you.”

Harry licks his lips and nods. Shortly after, Louis slips into the room, a cheeky grin on his face.

Harry gets up from his chair and walks over to where the music plays, reaching for the off button, but Louis interjects. “Oh, don’t turn it off,” he says. “I like it. And I don’t think I’ll stay long. Don’t wanna interrupt the genius at work here.”

Harry snorts. “I’m hardly a genius.”

“Oh, don’t be so modest,” Louis replies. “Honest, I’ve seen your stuff. It’s good. How old are you again?”

“Twenty-one.”

“See? How many lads can say that they’ve climbed to the top of fashion industry by the age of twenty-one?” Louis smiles.

Harry grins at him, twirling the rings on his fingers. “Would you like a drink? We can get you something.”

Louis shakes his head. “I’m fine, really. But thank you.”

Silence washes over them. Chopin plays furiously in the background, a quick tune that matches Harry’s heartbeat.

If he’s being totally, completely honest with himself, Harry recognizes that what he’s feeling is not just a simple bout of attraction. He can feel it in his limbs, in his veins, on the tip of his tongue and the ends of his eyelashes; this tug in him, pulling him closer to this beautiful boy in front of him. And he’s well aware that he’s only just met this man, but he’s also well aware of the electricity in him, screaming at him to move closer, to get closer.

So he does. He takes a step forward, motions to two chairs in the corner of the office. Louis follows his lead and takes a seat. Harry stares at him, at the way he sits with his knees apart and his hands resting on his thighs, and a smile spreads across his face.

“So you’re the hottest model in Britain,” Harry marvels.

Louis shrugs. “That’s a matter of opinion, I suppose.”

Harry grins and leans in closer to Louis. He props his elbow on his leg and his face on his palm, and he asks, “What do you think my opinion is?”

Louis chuckles once and runs his tongue across his bottom lip in a way that Harry thinks is absolutely _sinful_. “Well,” Louis says slowly, “given the way you looked at me earlier, I’d say that your opinion lies with the rest of Britain’s, Mr. Styles.”

Harry flashes a devilish grin and winks at him. Before he can say anything else, though, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He already knows who it is.

“I should probably go,” Louis says, starting to get up from his chair.

“Wait wait,” Harry protests, “I haven’t propositioned my offer to you yet.”

Louis raises an eyebrow and says, “Pardon me?”

“Earlier I said I might take you to dinner,” Harry reminds him. “Well, when and where do you want to go?”

Laughter fills the room. Louis shakes his head, a smile on his face. “Really? You want to take me to dinner.”

“Sure,” Harry says. “How about tomorrow?”

There’s a pause. Something hangs over the boys; a blanket of chiffon and champagne. The melodies of Chopin echo softly around them, intoxicating them with sweetness.

“Sure,” Louis finally says. “Of course.”

“Perfect,” Harry sings. “I’ll see you then.”


End file.
